


Three Kings

by Letterblade



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: BDSM, Background Relationships, Blindfolds, Bondage, Caning, Collars, Gags, Multi, Nipple Clamps, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Secret Relationship, Spitroasting, Subspace, Threesome Date Night, Toys, more like Byleth is functionally a shapeshifter it's a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22730494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: "The board's Morfis-made," Claude says, "but the game's all the way from Dagda. It's meant to be played by three. They call it Three Kings." And heavy are the heads that wear the crowns. Years into peacetime, after the Locket has opened, Byleth, Dimitri, and Claude come together, as they so often do, to play a new game.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rambling kinky threesome fic; probably 5-6 chapters, some of which are done. Some years after a very handwavy Azure Wind sort of situation. Tags will expand. Blink-and-you'll-miss-it Hilda/Raphael and Lorenz/Marianne, along with the usual assortment of random headcanons. Happy obligatory romance day!

In the years since Dimitri’s coronation, many things have changed, and the garrison towers of Fódlan’s Locket are one of them. The wide and heavy gate in the old wall, built only for sorties, stands open, lined with banners: Goneril, Blaiddyd, Almyra, Claude’s personal arms, the new flag of unified Fódlan. The rows of barracks and armories are gutted, remade into diplomatic chambers and guest rooms and luxurious baths and all the functions of a proper palace, and the broad ramparts have inevitably become a wyvern aerie that’s rarely not packed wings-to-tail with the occasional disgruntled pegasus for punctuation. Below, on either side of the new-opened border, houses and shops have cropped up like desert flowers after rain, a market that spans both countries.

The daily buzz, though, is nothing next to the buzz during a royal conference. Security, petty nobles hoping for some favor, hordes of children clamoring as king and archbishop wade through the crowd with their usual down-to-earth gravitas, making their own rounds. They visit Hilda’s glittering storefront on the Fódlan side, and at least their usual escort knows the shop-partner’s habit of picking up _both_ the highest heads of his nation and spinning them around as part of his booming welcome. Leonie’s readied an ambush, pulling them into a tavern for a round of day-drinking, and the Lady Marianne Edmund von Gloucester is has already been welcomed into the inner palace by the Gonerils and is settled with tea, awaiting them with her rare soft smile.

None of them have seen their chief guest yet, but the royal white wyvern is peaceably gnawing a goat and skreeing in her stall up on the ramparts, scales shining in the sun, so he can’t be far. Byleth aches to see him, of course, but they’ve arrived comfortably early even with the long steep ride up the foothills of the Throat, and besides, it’s Claude. He’s probably laid _some_ sort of surprise in motion, and he’ll pout if he doesn’t get to play it out. So they work through the whirl of royal guesthood in peaceable patience, shoulder to shoulder with Dimitri. The parlor in which they’re having an early afternoon teatime is, at least, quiet, the noise of the new-sprung trade city muffled by the Locket’s heavy fortress walls, and Marianne moves through pleasant chatter and government updates and the latest from the Edmund wool industry with a new-studied practice warmed by old friendship. She and Dimitri understand each other more than most, after all, and when either of them quietly says, _yes, I’m happy_ , they mean it, and it warms Byleth’s chest.

Lorenz isn’t here, of course—he avoids diplomatic engagements with Claude unless _absolutely_ necessary, though his disdain is softening with time—and Ignatz and Lysithea are lost to distant lands and less-distant laboratories, but it’s good to see the others. There is also, Byleth discovers, a note waxed to the bottom of their teacup, tiny and encoded in a cypher they’ve long memorized. _Arcturus suite, north wing, fourth floor. You can freshen up. —C_

So there’s Claude being ridiculous as usual.

The Arcturus suite is not, in fact, their assigned rooms, at least according to the porters, but one of the cluster of Goneril footmen winks and deflects, rustling some of their luggage to the wrong floor with a subtlety that shows another glimmer of Claude’s work guiding them deeper into the Locket like a treasure map. Their personal necessities float up to the Arcturus suite, leaving enough in their assigned rooms, separate but adjacent, for them to be believably occupied.

It’s then that Dimitri notices—always sharper than most give him credit for. “Claude,” Byleth murmurs, in answer to his ear-whisper, and then they pass the word out quietly to their escorts, and the illusion weaves itself. The King and the Archbishop go to their rooms; Byleth and Dimitri slip up another flight of stairs to the suite set aside for foreign royalty. The suite that they’ve had more than one tryst in before, that has an assortment of usefuls tucked away in well-locked drawers.

They are, after all, long accustomed to weaving such an illusion. It’s a weight and a frustration at times. But Fódlan has long struggled under the rod of a church that ruled the continent in all but name, and for the new archbishop to wed the king of the rawly unified country? Even setting aside the fact that enough people perceived Byleth as male—including, usually, Dimitri—that such a wedding would raise any number of questions, it would come with baggage neither of them cared to invoke. So their rings sit on chains around their necks, lurking quietly under vestments and armor, ever-warm over their hearts. Their arrangement with Claude just adds another layer to the illusion during the few sessions a year they can carve out time for a summit both political and personal.

Three and a half solid weeks this time. Generous, scaled to be worth the travel time and expense, with some extra days of breathing room around the summit per se.

Claude’s nowhere to be found in the Arcturus suite, but his fingerprints show all through it: his dagger, a treasured gift from Dimitri, already tucked under the pillow where he would sleep. His beard clippers and grooming oils on the vanity. The little shims and seals he tucks into the window casements to tell him if they’ve been compromised.

There’s a warmed basin of water for sponge-bathing: the full baths are shared across the wing, communal as the Garreg Mach sauna and with an extra pool in the Almyran style, but it’s more than enough for Dimitri and Byleth both to strip out of their horse-stunk travel gear and wipe themselves down so they can dress presentably.

“Think he’s hiding somewhere watching us?” Byleth asks absentmindedly as they scrub Dimitri’s back, watching a few stray tips of his hair turn dark and brassy where they’ve leaked out of their tie.

Dimitri’s ears pink and he makes a small, huffing noise. “Come out already, Claude,” he calls. “I haven’t seen you in three months. It’s been long enough.”

Unsurprisingly, there’s no answer. They dress in the bedroom: there’s nothing on their official schedule until tomorrow morning, but there’s no telling what Claude might ambush them with, so they take a guess with the comfortable side of semiformal, a compromise that could work just as well for a not-too-fussy dinner party or a wild wyvern ride over the mountains that, knowing their luck, would end with an unplanned bandit fight. It’s _Claude_.

When they come into the suite’s parlor, Claude’s sitting at the little tea-table reading something with a floridly embossed cover.

Dimitri lets out a tiny bark of surprise, but relaxes quickly enough. “I told you to come out already.”

Claude sets his book aside—hanging over the edge of the table to mark his place, because he’s a jerk like that—and gives them both a smile that _more_ than reaches his bright eyes. “Missed you too, your majesty.”

“Don’t you start,” Dimitri snorts, fond.

Byleth touches a finger to their lips, just lightly, and Claude shakes his head with a wink, and with that they know the illusion of privacy is complete, so they don’t waste any time in crossing the parlor and pulling Claude bodily out of his chair and into a very tight hug.

“Hey, Teach,” Claude croaks, melting in their arms.

* * *

They catch up, pleasantries and kisses and fitting into each other’s arms as they scoot the chairs closer, and through it all, Dimitri’s eyeing the strange, elaborately inlaid hexagonal slab of wood that’s sitting on the tea-table in front of Claude. There’s a triangle-grid of dots upon it, and he has a sinking suspicion that it’s some new board game that he’ll not be very good at. “Claude. Is that some new board game that I’ll not be very good at?”

“And that I’ll make you play anyway?” Claude winks. “Absolutely. The board’s Morfis-made, but the game’s all the way from Dagda. It’s meant to be played by three.” He runs a finger round the edge of the board. “Two sides apiece. They call it Three Kings. It came with the rules on a card, which is good, because I’ve barely had a chance to try it yet.”

Byleth is studying it with a little tilt of their head, and slides their fingers along a panel on the side, and a drawer opens with a pop. Carved nuggets of multicolored stone, and yes, a card covered with tightly scribbled text.

“But that’s Teach’s present, not yours,” Claude goes on with a bright smile. “I’m not _that_ mean. Here.” He slides to his feet and goes over to the loveseat, where a long roll of dark blue fabric sits. It hadn’t been there before, Dimitri thinks, and he can tell from the shift of Claude’s shoulders as he lifts it and offers it out on both palms that it’s not weightless.

“Claude,” Dimitri starts, already harboring a guess, and as he carefully folds back the fabric—

The lance is _beautiful._ That’s the first thing that strikes him. Polished dark shaft with Faerghus-blue leather wraps, a brass-inlaid counterweight, a long and wickedly curved head of truly fine craftsmanship that sings softly as he touches it. Red tassels hang both from the base of the blade and the counterweight at the butt end, and Dimitri can tell even through the leather of his gloves that they’re heavily waxed so they won’t clump with blood. The ornamentation is gorgeous, clearly Almyran in style, but not too fussy. Not too hard for a Faerghan blacksmith to repair should the force of his crest warp it.

“It’s an Almyran wyvern rider’s glaive, custom to your height,” Claude says. “The flyer’s axes are traditional, of course, and many riders find them easier to work with, but some of my father’s best battalions use these. Should work about as well on horseback, and you of all people could be glorious with one on foot.” He slides fingers along the shaft, taps a certain spot. “The balance point is a little different than a Faerghan lance, and there’s no give to the shaft…”

“Like Areadbhar,” Dimitri murmurs. The shape is not dissimilar. “It’s beautiful.” He has to swallow; his mouth is a little dry at the thought that Claude’s put into this. “Thank you.” He lifts it with reverence, two-handed, feels the balance and the weight—and feels his eyebrows climb. Still too easy to underestimate Claude’s strength, holding this out as he inspected it. “Are they always this heavy?”

“Not usually. About what you’d expect from a cavalry lance. I took a guess for your wielding weight—let me know if it’s too much and I’ll have the head set on a new shaft. The extra weight’s mostly reinforcement. There’s steel sunk the length of the shaft so you won’t break it as easily.”

“I see,” Dimitri says, voice a little rough. A piece that would look as good on his wall as it would be functional on the battlefield, tailored to his strength. “Claude…what does it mean, in Almyra, to give a weapon?”

“Among equals—respect, first and foremost.” Claude smiles, easy. “An acknowledgement of skill. A custom piece…yeah, that’s a little intimate. Maybe not as much as in Faerghus, but in that, we’re not entirely different.”

Dimitri swallows again, wordless, and leans over to kiss him with the shaft of the glaive between them. Claude, hands full with wrapping cloth, just tilts his head back and welcomes him with his far-too-clever mouth and a hum of satisfaction.

He can’t resist, when he’s done, giving a few careful swings of the thing, backed into the most space that the parlor can allow them, but any real exploration is going to have to wait until they’re outdoors. It is, after all, scaled for his height, and the extra weight gives it a whirring _power_ that he’s eager to test on a dummy and doesn’t dare unleash in a nice sitting room.

He catches Byleth’s eye for a moment, and they’re leaning their chin on one hand with a profoundly fond smile.

Dimitri thanks Claude again, deeply, and lays the lance back across his strong hands, and together they get it wrapped up and safely stowed. “I…now I wish I had brought a far larger present,” Dimitri says, rather sheepish. “But even if it is a little thing, please, allow me to…”

“It’s from you,” Claude says kindly, and tugs him back to sit at the tea-table, shoulder to shoulder and grinning. Byleth pulls over their luggage, and plants a simple cloth pouch in Dimitri’s hands, and holds a box in their own. Dimitri presents his gift nervously, feeling the small jars clinking within, and for a moment Claude blinks, and then pops the cork of one and sniffs carefully.

His eyes widen.

“It’s from…well, it’s as much from Dedue as me, but…”

“Duscuri spices?” Claude murmurs, and replaces the cork with a reverence he rarely sees in the man.

“Fresh. The, ah, some of the new orchards are finally maturing. The first grind of cassia. And of course you have a standing invitation the next time you come north.”

Claude, Dimitri has learned, does not often let out his softer smiles—no more so than Felix, despite being far more effusive—but this is one of them now, and he cradles the pouch with care, sniffing each jar in turn. “Thank you. This is no little thing, Dimitri, not for me either. You know that.”

Dimitri feels his chest warm. “You’re welcome.”

Byleth’s hand tangles with his for a moment, and squeezes, and then they set their own gift on top of the game board. The cedar document box is unassuming. Dimitri, of course, knows what’s inside, and watches Claude’s face as he pounces and slides the lid open to see—loose papers. He puts on the mock-wounded expression. “Homework, Teach? Really?”

Byleth shrugs, silent, and hands Claude a pair of white cotton gloves. Claude’s eyebrows climb. “Poisoned homework or old homework?” Byleth still doesn’t answer, poker-faced, and Claude puts the gloves on and wiggles his fingers. “Gotta be old, these gloves aren’t waxed.”

Dimitri can’t help a small, fond smile as Claude ducks his head, gingerly shifting one paper aside to see the next—and then his face goes slack as his eyes widen. “You’re…kidding me,” he breathes. “How old are these?”

“About six hundred years. They were in one of Garreg Mach’s old store-rooms. Documents that nobody got around to destroying.”

“And you’re not keeping them in Fódlan?”

“They’ve been copied,” Byleth says comfortably. “They’ll keep better in a dry climate anyway.” They pause a moment. “There are about four or five extant copies of the excised gospels of Sothis, at least from what we can gather. Six if it’s true that there’s one in the Vestra family archives—we’re _still_ going through those.”

“This isn’t the gospels of Sothis,” Claude says, voice still a whisper like he’s afraid his breath will turn it to dust. “Though I’ve always wanted to read those, preferably _without_ getting tried for heresy, so thank you for that.”

“No—they’re beneath. The gospels are less delicate, since they’re on good parchment. That probably _is_ the only copy of the first diplomatic correspondence between Adrestia and what is now Almyra, unless there’s something in your archives.”

Claude shakes his head. “The royal archives only go back about a hundred and fifty years. Like you said, what is now Almyra. The regime changes and our own unification wars wiped out most things that weren’t oft-retold sagas or stone inscriptions.” His mouth twists. “The last surviving old library, protected in the mountains, was burned in the first major war with the Alliance, before the Gonerils got pushed back out of the eastern foothills. Scholars from Fódlan like to say that we have no history. Yet another reason we’re barbarians.”

“I can’t say that what’s in there reflects pleasantly on Fódlan or the church,” Byleth says, and Dimitri squeezes their hand gently. “And that was one step of the Hresvelg dynasty’s slide into cruelty and imperialism that eventually led to Loog’s revolt. But it is our shared history regardless. And I can think of nobody who more deserves to have this piece of it.”

Claude very carefully replaces the lid, pulls off the gloves, and lays them on top of the box, eyes half-lidded as he digests the weight of what he’s been given. The smile he brings up afterwards is small but by no means false. “Thank you. I mean it. This is incredible.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Let me take a moment to put this in my diplomatic case,” Claude murmurs.

“Of course.” It had travelled most of the way in Byleth’s own, Dimitri knew, locked securely—more for the value of it than for any real sensitivity, but the price of a complete gospel of Sothis on the black market would bankrupt a minor noble house. They lean shoulder to shoulder, Byleth breathing out tension, as Claude squirrels it away. They hadn’t thought it would be poorly received, not really, but it’s still a gift with an unpleasant weight.

When Claude returns, though, Byleth just asks, casual as anything, “If the board game is your present to me, then what about what’s in the hidden compartment?”

Claude’s smile brightens, eyes twinkling. “I was wondering when you’d notice. And no, it wasn’t even a custom piece, Morfis game sets often come with puzzle boxes because they’re just _like that_ and I love it.” He drops an arm around Byleth’s shoulders and leans in for a grateful kiss. “The hidden compartment’s a gift for all of us, more or less. But you two have been horseback all morning, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving, and there’s a _really_ good new restaurant on the Almyran side. Puzzle solving after dinner?”

Dimitri, put out by missing it, glares at the board for a moment. Well, the drawer may be much smaller than the base of the thing, but who’s to say it isn’t just solid wood? Perhaps some of the joints look odd? This is going to be some complicated puzzle he’s dreadful at, isn’t it? It’s going to eat at him, and it’s not like he’s hungry—

“Sounds good,” Byleth says, just as Dimitri’s stomach growls.

* * *

Dinner turns out to be a hole in the wall where a tiny white-haired and leather-faced woman slings steaming rice over a brick stove and her long-bearded son _almost_ does a double-take at Claude before something too rapid-fire for Byleth’s basic Almyran to follow settles him down so that they’re allowed to eat in peace. There is one meal being served for the five tables crammed inside, but Byleth wouldn’t rule out Claude having reached out to the family and made arrangements for the menu as well as the usual poison screening, because it’s fragrant even by the standards of Almyran cuisine: a richly scented sheeps-head soup heralding saffron-and-rosewater steamed rice slathered with deeply-flavored sweet-and-sour stewed meat that melts in their mouths. Also cheesy bread. They follow Claude’s lead and pick out the soaked husks of dried limes and cardamom pods, and Dimitri closes his eye and basks in the smells.

His sense of taste is—shaky, even still, Byleth knows. Not as bad as it used to be. Ashe had pointed out once that scent is a very large portion of taste, and that had helped, given him an end-run around the numbing tricks his own mind played on him. When Claude had realized the situation, he’d latched onto it with the fierceness of a new project combined with his delight in feasting people at the drop of a hat, because in Almyra, scent itself is part of the dish. Claude chatters incessantly through dinner, all lit up with the excitement of sharing cuisine, describing the dishes in detail, sometimes in a back-and-forth with the grandmother in the kitchen—who seems, from some words Byleth catches, to perhaps know _exactly_ who he is and not give a damn—and coaxes out details of what Dimitri’s managed to taste.

By the time the rice pudding and the cardamom-nut cookies come out, Claude and even Byleth are laden to bursting and filling in the corners, and Dimitri grows an impressive dessert stomach for the pudding, between the orange-blossom water filling his nose and his favorite sort of gooey texture. They ooze out in the fast-cooling mountain night of the drier side of the Throat as the first stars start to come in, languid and sensual in the way one gets after _very_ good food, and the brisk breeze breathes life into them. Lights glimmer through the market streets, even at night with most of the stalls empty, and smells waft, and none of them are inclined to take the steep climb up to the fourth floor of the Locket without digestion, so they let their guards mill in a loose perimeter and take a long while to sit, shoulder to shoulder, naming stars and talking circles around how much this new world, this water-in-the-desert market town, makes Claude looks like he wants to cry in chest-cracking relief.

Eventually, though, they’re feeling mobile and varyingly suffused with late-night excitement and the frustration of _not_ being able to make out in the street, and Byleth can’t stop thinking about the puzzle box. One of the side panels must play into it. A slide? Wouldn’t be much room for a twist unless one had to pick up the board…

They take the long climb, and re-establish their illusion, and slip into the comfortable privacy of the Arcturus suite, and Claude checks his window seals with a few flicks of his eyes as Dimitri stretches and Byleth makes a pot of tea. A chamomile blend, not too heavy on the stuff so they don’t fall asleep, but both men love it, so they can’t not.

Claude tries to sit patiently as Byleth and Dimitri puzzle away at the game board, but it being Claude, that lasts about five minutes, and then he’s rolling about the suite, sipping tea, disappearing into the bedroom with a soft jingle of keys that meant unlocking the drawers full of interesting things that _none_ of the cleaning staff have access to, coming back in, leaving again to shed outer layers for a cozy dressing gown and slippers, stoking the fire, and generally being categorically unable to sit still.

It’s Dimitri who eventually grumbles and flips the board entirely upside-down, and there’s paneling there that wouldn’t be expected, and Byleth smacks their forehead gently. “Here I was assuming we’d be able to get into it when it was being a game board.”

Dimitri shrugs. “These sets are made to be portable, right?”

Byleth is the one who finally gets it open—a side panel twisting is the breakthrough—and the whole bottom of the board opens. It’s a generously sized compartment, and inside…it takes them a moment to parse. Coiled bits of leather.

“Oh,” says Dimitri very quietly, and lifts one out to uncoil it.

Deep indigo leather, so dark it’s almost black, thick but soft, suedey on the inside, well-tooled with a heavy steel buckle and a ring. Just about the length of the shamefully repurposed hound’s collar that has settled around Dimitri’s neck on all those nights when he needed to set himself aside and just _be._ Be Byleth’s and be free.

The next two come out in Byleth’s hands. Russet-brown with brass hardware, a little shorter than Dimitri’s—the perfect size for Claude, they’d guess. And creamy white, also with brass, shorter still. Claude often saw Byleth as a woman, they knew. Had met them as a woman back at Garreg Mach, and it wasn’t until the three of them started being together like this that both their perceptions had faltered in confusion. Byleth thinks of the soft white shirt-collar they’d see in the mirror after spending time with the many who saw them as a woman, the gold medallion that would sit there when it was not at their waist, and of course that was the color and size that he’d think of. It would adjust as needed, they were sure. Their clothing had a peculiar tendency to, once they put it on. One of those ways in which their position in space and time was a little—flickery.

“Three kings,” Claude says quietly. “And the flip side of that game. All of us need a turn to relax once in a while, if I may presume. I hope it fits, Byleth.” Their name for once, soft and sure. “I had to guess on that one, for more reason than one.”

“It…should.” Byleth closes their eyes for a moment, focusing. A woman. Claude sees them as a woman, and had probably guessed their size from running hands over their neck. They’re not _aware_ of any change, exactly, because it both is and isn’t a change. Flickery. It is a change only in how they’re perceived, because they are themself beyond such trivialities, but it’s also physical, because—well, because of reasons Sothis had struggled to explain in human words, back when they could talk freely, at least in human words that Byleth knew, because whatever ‘quantum flux’ was, they’d never heard it before or since. Space and time. Since they’ve started being able to consciously influence it, it’s always felt a little bit like reaching for the hands of time.

They loop the leather around their neck, only somewhat bothering to get their hair out of the way, and it fits comfortably on the second hole, and the suedey inside of it is very nice. When they open their eyes, both the men are watching them, Dimitri with something cautious and thoughtful in his eye, and Claude with an open and hungry curiosity. He’s the one who reaches out to tug a little more of Byleth’s hair free.

Byleth considers for a moment, then hums softly and undoes it, laying it skin-warm back on the table. Dimitri had touched his like he ached to wear it, which hardly surprised them; of all of them, he was the one for which that repurposed old band of leather meant the most, and they’d be glad to see that new indigo against his throat tonight. Claude…well, he can always go either way. His rattling around the suite as they puzzled the thing out was particularly nervy tonight, like he wanted something overwhelming to settle himself; on the other hand, he was in an earnest mood and hadn’t gone out of his way to start shit or provoke reactions, so they were curious what he needed most. And for themself—a little placid from travel and dinner, but more comfortable taking things in hand than not at the moment.

“Well,” Byleth says. “They’re beautiful. Thank you. Let’s take these to the bedroom and make out, shall we?”


	2. Chapter 2

They make out, long and languid, trading between each other. Claude’s hungry, contact-hungry, too long without them, a little jittery, and Byleth’s hand in his hair, but of course he can’t stop wondering—did he really pick that gift well? Is Byleth weirded out that he commissioned one for them too? He’d wondered for a moment as they tried it on, some subliminal contentment on their face at the leather around their throat, but they were so often in charge and—well, it was just an offer, didn’t have to be accepted. Certainly not tonight.

Dimitri folds like a weak hand of cards the first time Byleth settles a hand on the nape of his neck, so Claude guesses he’s thirsty for that, and he takes his time kissing and nibbling under that curtain of golden hair until Dimitri is making stifled whines in the back of his throat. Not that Dimitri doesn’t give as good as he gets, meticulously gentle teeth worrying Claude’s throat as Byleth presses teasingly light kisses along his cheekbones and jaw. Not that Claude isn’t going to get his own payback, tangling his hand in Byleth’s ragged-soft mint hair and dragging them into kisses to see how easily they went.

No more easily than usual, really.

“Claude,” Byleth says after a particularly long kiss, quiet and firm and almost casual. “I like that you got me one too, and I’ll try it later.” Perfectly Byleth: no judgement, comfortable acceptance, and that particular idea is tabled, but that’s not going to stop Claude from chewing on it until it’s picked back up. “And breaking through your games can be fun,” they continue, “but I don’t feel like it tonight. So it’s up to you. Stay in control and we can team up on Dimitri.” Dimitri makes a faint noise at that, a subliminal stir of his shoulders where he’s leaning with his face in Byleth’s bicep.

“He might not survive that, Teach,” Claude says with a lopsided smile. It’s certainly tempting. Dimitri can be so beautifully pliant when he sinks deep down—and he’s desperate for it tonight, he’s going to be a puddle no matter what. But it’s not like Claude doesn’t feel that itch too, deep and niggling down his spine, the urge to peel off all his responsibility and let it fall aside like armor after a long battle.

“Or,” says Byleth, gloriously ignoring his interruption, “you won’t get a say in what happens to you.” They lock their gaze with his. “I mean it. If you say yes, you’ll be bound, blindfolded, and gagged.” Claude swallows hard, feeling something squirming and icy drop low in his belly. _Right_ for the weak points. “If I take the gag out, it’ll be to use your mouth for something else. No talking until we’re done. You’ll do nothing but feel and take what’s given you, though I won’t do anything I’ve never done before. If you’ll still trying to stay in control, I’ll plug your ears up too.”

The squirming icy thing does a double backflip, leaving heat in its wake as Claude wrestles with himself. “Okay, you definitely mean it.” He flashes a smile. “You don’t have to go that far, you know. Put a collar on me and I’ll behave.”

Byleth reaches out to drag a thumb across Claude’s lower lip, a crook of a smile tugging at their mouth. “No you won’t.”

“No you won’t,” Dimitri murmurs fondly, already on a bit of a delay from Byleth’s other hand on the back of his neck.

“I _can_ ,” Claude grumbles, a little annoyed. He’s _done_ it, even if he’s not Dimitri. “You know I can.”

“You’d be acting.” Byleth gives a vague roll of one shoulder. “Is that really what you want right now?”

Armor. Falling aside. Not that Claude feels like he’s wearing armor at all, not with how easily Byleth cuts past it. Rather naked already, really. Armor wasn’t the right metaphor anyway, really, or at least a little mixed given that, maybe more like carrying a hundred-pound box of _paperwork_ for months on end? He shakes his head a little in spite of himself—no, Byleth’s right, acting _isn’t_ what Claude wants. No games, just sweetly wrecking Dimitri, or…

Even this time last year, he wouldn’t have been able to manage that one tiny little word; left at an impasse like this, he would have backed out, spent a night making Dimitri dance on his fingers and cock like a beautiful puppet, and missed out on something else he needed. Even now, it takes a few solid minutes of wrestling as Byleth rubs the nape of Dimitri’s neck and waits patiently. Not even with all the trust he’d scraped out of the corners of his heart. Because _admitting things_ , like _this_ , for _free_ , just because somebody _asked_ —he’s goddamn allergic.

“ _Nem_ ,” he manages finally, and at least they both know a little bit of Almyran at this point. He opens his mouth to add something—and Byleth’s hand moves snake-strike fast, fingers crushing his lips, thumb clamping his jaw closed. Nothing’s holding him, he could get out of it, but he keeps himself still, carefully, lets Byleth’s eyes rake over his mute face for a moment before he raises his own hand to tap the back of theirs, gently, thrice.

Byleth releases his mouth as fast as they’d sealed it, head cocked a little, gaze softening.

“I was going to say let me get a bit more tea first,” he murmurs. “So my mouth doesn’t dry out.”

“Of course,” Byleth says, a small apology tucked into their nod, and leans in to kiss Claude lightly, only Claude had already moved a little, so they miss.

“That’s my nose,” Claude says with a laugh.

“Huh,” Byleth says, expressionless. “Here I thought it was your dick.”

Dimitri snorts once, twice, and then cracks into giggling, big shoulders shaking a little with laughter. Which is, as always, the most precious thing in existence, and they both have to take a moment to savor it even as Dimitri mumbles a “sorry, I, that was just— _snnrk_ —”

Byleth takes a fistful of blond and tugs very gently. “No sorry in the bedroom, Dimitri.”

“Oh—yes, that’s quite, I—” He gamely manages to bite off the next apology.

“And, yes,” Byleth continues, “that’s a good idea. The pot should still be warm. I’ll get Dimitri settled while you do that.”

* * *

Settled, of course, means the collar.

There is a way they always do it, not because Byleth has dictated it, but because Dimitri is a man of habit, and the ritual is comforting, helps him settle his ever-raw mind. First, down on one knee to kiss the back of Byleth’s hand, and perhaps even Byleth doesn’t know this entirely, but the angle of his head and the placement of his hand makes it not the kiss a king would offer his archbishop, but the kiss a knight would offer his liege-lord. From this first moment, with with all the care and respect it deserves, he’s peeling off the weight of the crown.

The return kiss is pressed to his forehead as Byleth cups his face tenderly in both hands, and Dimitri leaves his palm-up on his knee in offering, and then Byleth says gently, “Take your time.”

The time is for Dimitri to strip, and for Byleth to put a pillow on the floor, and because the one takes far longer than the other, they sit and warm the leather of the collar with their hands. They’re readying themselves as well; Dimitri had asked them about it once. It is a tremendous thing to ask of them, Dimitri knows. He shall have to lavish them later in gratitude—perhaps with Claude’s aid. There is that third collar waiting, after all.

He takes off his gauntlets first, and that consumes his entire attention, because even with that, he’s practically naked.

Claude has his own rituals, not that he would ever admit them as such. Dimitri is only faintly aware of it, but he’s pacing gently as he sips his tea, gradually adding up to two full circuits of the room. It’s not as if both their security teams haven’t swept this place. It’s not as if he doesn’t trust all parties. He’s comfortable, Dimitri can tell, as he’s not checking the bottom of every drawer. They meet gazes just for a moment, and Claude quirks a smile, and Dimitri returns it.

Knowing one observer will be blindfolded makes it that much easier to strip, even after all these years, which is perhaps a little sad, but Dimitri has never claimed to not be a wreck of a man. In silent answer to that gaze, though, he slides off his eyepatch, baring the puckered hollowness beneath, and Byleth gives a wordless, subliminal hum of acceptance. He pulls out the cord binding his hair. Catch by catch undoes the lighter bits of armor he’d wear even on a night like this, then undoes doublet and undershirt and riding trousers and hose and smallclothes, layer after layer, folding them carefully in a pile. It’s not in the least erotic, he thinks; he’s seen Claude make the removal of his clothing a dance that made his mouth go dry and his own pants far too tight, even if it came with terrible jokes about inspiring him to go another round of ‘battle.’ But Byleth watches quietly regardless.

Naked, feeling the air of the room against his skin, he breathes until he can manage to make it deep and slow and steady, until he feels a quiet calm start to gather in his mind.

Then he kneels on the pillow. Both knees this time, settled back on his heels, hands on his thighs. The quiet calm rises, becomes a touch hazy, as Byleth unfolds a little, sitting now with their legs on either side of Dimitri where he kneels next to the bed, and runs a hand down the blind side of his face, tender. “Dimitri,” they say quietly, because just his name can go right to the core of him at times.

“Beloved,” he answers, and finally lifts a hand to gather his hair, baring his neck. “I am yours.”

The hide of this collar is just a little softer, and the buckle that closes it less jingly, but there is still the warm firmness of leather, the clink of tack, the smell of it, all the sensations that send him falling free into that quiet, peaceful space beyond himself, beyond thought.

* * *

“Claude,” Byleth asks comfortably as he finishes his tea and his room check. “How much do you care about those clothes?”

“These?” Claude takes a quick inventory, then shrugs out of the silk dressing gown he’s been lounging in. Below that, it’s just a common linen shift and trousers, neither embroidered nor entirely new. “Do what you like.”

Byleth brings Dimitri up on the bed with a nudge of his chin and a pat of the mattress, and he kneels quietly at their side, scarred chest rising and falling slow and even and deep. Stars eternal, it’s good seeing him like this, all blissed out. Claude takes a moment to drink it in; Byleth’s in no mood for idle threats, after all, and he knows he won’t be seeing much more tonight.

“Well, get over here and kiss me, then,” Byleth says with a sharp little smile.

Claude grins, easy and practiced, even as his pulse kicks up another notch. He insinuates himself between Byleth’s knees and kisses them with everything he’s got: slow at first, sensual, exploring, teasing their lips just how they like, building into tongue-twisting passion as Byleth threads fingers through his hair. Claude likes kissing, could kiss for hours, likes to think he’s good at it, and Byleth is breathing a little faster when they finally let each other go.

“See,” he says with a slightly pleading smile. “I can be goo—”

Two of Byleth’s fingers slide deep in his mouth, garbling him, and he feels his face heat a little and falls silent. Almost better to hold his tongue than have his voice come out distorted—he’s never handled that particular humiliation well.

“Hold his wrists, Dimitri,” Byleth says, almost gently, and Dimitri’s big scarred hands slide warm over the back of his and clamp around his wrists like iron. Claude tugs just to tug, because Dimitri’s strength always makes his blood heat, and squirms a little as the two of them pull him onto the bed, kneeling on the mattress just as Dimitri is. A shove of his head by the hair brings his mouth to Dimitri’s, and he obliges with a hum of satisfaction.

Dimitri, by Claude’s historical analysis, has three kissing modes—cautious and almost chaste, soul-deep, and ravagingly toothy—and unsurprisingly is in the second. He usually is when he’s down like this, and it takes a lot to coax him into letting his brutal side out and unleashing the third. He kisses like he wants to swallow him, like he’s breathing life into a drowning man, and Claude melts into his mouth even as Dimitri rearranges him to hold both his wrists in one hand, clamped together in the small of his back, because he truly is ridiculous.

Byleth’s rummaging about as they kiss, and Claude absentmindedly wonders which part of his doom is going to come first—the gag, maybe, given how intent Byleth is on keeping him from having a say in things? but Dimitri’s keeping him silent now, and perhaps he is to be blindfolded first so he can’t see what’s being put in him?—and eventually their hand comes back to Claude’s hair, holding him for Dimitri to devour. Not that he would want to back out of that, not really, but it’s nice to be held. He puts a little more effort into squirming just to feel both of them tighten their grip, feels his heartrate kick up a little.

“Mm,” Byleth says, doing that Byleth thing where they read Claude’s entire emotional state in the ridges of his shoulders—which, to be fair, given how much is bound up in his archer’s back turned to desk-hunching, probably isn’t that hard. “Seems like you made the right choice.”

Their fingers hook into the side of Claude’s mouth as they finally pull him back from Dimitri, forcing his jaw open before it occurred to him to fight back, and, well, that answers that. Cloth fills his mouth as his eyes flutter open from the kiss, twisted coils of it. He trusts Byleth to knot it so it won’t slip down his throat and choke him—of course he trusts Byleth—but reflex makes him struggle, nostrils flaring with one angry, muffled grunt that echoes oddly in his own skull.

It’s already dampened. Considerate. Won’t give him much cottonmouth.

Byleth keeps him casually headlocked against their chest as they pack his mouth full—almost too full, almost but not quite, and Dimitri watches him with an odd, quiet tenderness in his eye, and folds his free hand over Claude’s heart. More cloth pulls over Claude’s mouth, a few layers of it, drawn tight to keep him from spitting anything out, and Byleth lets him out of the headlock to knot it, and then pulls his head back to look down at him, upside-down, with that see-through-your-soul gaze.

Byleth’s hand smoothes down Claude’s cheek as he makes a few muffled attempts at words and then falls into silence. He’s stuffed full, can barely move his lips. Not even a semblance of talking around this one. “There,” Byleth says. “Much more manageable.”

A thumb tracing under his eyes, and Claude makes a faint helpless noise, tries to twist his wrists in Dimitri’s grip. It’s still a little half-assed—he _does_ want this, of course he does, but Byleth’s not wrong, it’s a lot quicker to just be taken than let them worry him down until he gave it up willing and earnest. His heart’s rattling in his chest; the squirming thing low in his belly has gone blood-hot and he knows he’s tenting his trousers. _Wait_ , he wants to say, _wait, let me get used to this, don’t blindfold me yet_ , _let me see Dimitri’s pretty face_ , but all he can manage are flattened vowels that all sound filthy, and if they waited, he’d just start redefining his perimeter and finding choke points and sniper’s nests, and the idea is to take _off_ his armor, right?

Dimitri leans in to kiss his temple, tender, then his eyelid.

“You’re going to get things in your eyes if you don’t close them,” Byleth says, sounding a little amused.

Claude swallows, a little awkward with his tongue trapped, and gives one last struggle on principle as he drinks in their faces, and closes his eyes, and heavy dark cloth folds out the light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333 you guys

Dimitri is quietly, pleasantly zoned, and Byleth doesn’t want to pull him too far out of it, but the strength in his arms is useful, and he seems content to simply hold Claude however he’s directed, which does make binding him easier. After, of course, Dimitri rips off Claude’s gently worn linen shirt like it’s nothing more than grass, parting under his fists on Byleth’s command as Claude makes a strangled noise that might be _oh, fuck._

Byleth goes for rope, and not just a simple lashing of wrists: there’s a harness round Claude’s sleekly muscled chest, pinning his biceps to his sides, holding his arms folded behind him. It should be comfortable for some time, and very secure. He’s still struggling half-heartedly, at least until Byleth gets the rope cinched snug and there’s really not much he can do besides sway back and forth on his knees and make little noises into his gag.

They squeeze one hand and tap his palm. One tap back. Doing fine.

They consider binding his legs, but decide not to quite yet. Another thing to hit him with later if he tries to find purchase. They _will_ plug up his ears if they need to—they don’t make empty threats—but they know it’ll be quite challenging for him, so it’s a last resort. Instead, for now, they drop soft kisses over Dimitri’s temple, affectionate.

“You can touch him whenever and however you like,” they murmur, tugging un-gently through the strands of Claude’s hair free above his blindfold. “You don’t need permission for that.”

Dimitri hums in acknowledgement, and after a moment, his big hand wanders, tracing the lines of Claude’s bound shoulders, the side of his neck, the scratch of his beard, up over the fabric covering most of his face. It’s tender, almost reverent, and Claude leans into it a little even as he squirms his arms in the harness, testing his bonds. They are, of course, unyielding, and he shakes just a little and lets out shuddering sighs as his helplessness sinks in.

Dimitri pulls Claude a little closer by the nape of his neck and plants kisses of his own: jaw, over the blindfold, the stripe of bare cheek, the shell of his ear. Byleth pets his hair. Claude’s weak to tenderness; it catches him off balance, leaves him shaky. They doubt Dimitri’s doing it deliberately; he’s just affectionate.

Byleth gives the counterpoint, lest Claude get too understimulated, and the first pinch to his nipple has him grunting and twitching in Dimitri’s arms. “I seem to have a matched set,” Byleth ruminates aloud, petting Dimitri’s hair with their other hand. “Do you think he’ll earn his collar?”

Dimitri has to lick his lips before he speaks, voice low and a little rough. Words come slow to him when he’s like this. “Is it…about earning? He’s not doing anything. He’s yours too.”

Claude makes a small, indecipherable whine.

“Mm,” Byleth says. “That’s true.” They trace fingers around Claude’s neck, and then do him a kindness and fold their hand over the front of his throat. Not choking—they wouldn’t quite dare when they can’t read his face well—but holding. Claude sways a little as the fight runs out of him. It’s really quite a convenient off switch, and they’ve never not been amused by the parallel: sink Dimitri down with a hand on the nape of his neck, push Claude over the edge with a hand on his throat.

They leave Dimitri holding Claude close and tender, big hand splayed over the side of his head to keep him snug, and pick up the second collar. The exact same design as Dimitri’s except for the colors, and no doubt a perfect fit, and it really is quite a lovely gift he’s gotten them all. Claude stands on no ceremony, not like Dimitri, and it’s already been decided that he doesn’t get a say, so Byleth just pulls Claude free of Dimitri by the hair and buckles it snug, rough and unfussy.

“Mine,” they say, matter-of-fact, in Claude’s ear, and Claude keens softly in answer, sounding for all the world like his wyvern when she’s got a mouthful of _really_ tasty treat.

They really are an oddly, perfectly matched set. There’s a little mess of clips and straps and bits of chain accumulated in the drawers here, and it’s not hard for Byleth to find what they want. If they were a different kind of person, they think, they would take some particular satisfaction in clipping together the collars of the kings of Almyra and Fódlan, two crowned heads pliant under their hands. But it’s just Claude and Dimitri, two beautiful, loving, tired men who want to loosen their heavy circlets and roll over. They have a foot or two of play, enough to keep from bonking their skulls together, especially since Claude can’t see what he’s doing. But it’s a lovely image, and they see Dimitri’s lips quirk, fond, amused.

Byleth tugs at the strap until she hears a noise from Claude. “You’re leashed to Dimitri. Don’t go running off now.”

* * *

The leash doesn’t stay between them for that long, all told, mostly because it’s inconvenient, but Dimitri takes some strange, bone-deep satisfaction in it, the two of them yoked together by Byleth’s hand. And he enjoys Claude this close, warm and nerveless, a pleasant thing to run his hands over and kiss, with his spice-oiled hair and the fuzz down his chest. It almost surprises him how freely the affection pours out of him, sinks into Claude and displaces little gut-deep shivers from his bound body. The letting-go shivers, he thinks. The first few times he’d stripped and knelt and let Byleth strap a collar around his neck, he’d shaken like a leaf, so hard he’d scared himself.

Occasionally something unpleasant and vaguely envy-shaped rises, then falls again every time Byleth’s hand or lips touch his skin. He will not be forgotten, nor left aside when he’s vulnerable. A year or three ago, he would have hated himself for the very thought; now, at least, he can manage that much need.

Something else rises and stays, turning over slowly as he chews on it. Insecurity? Being bound is a delicate thing for him, walking an edge between blissful surrender and reflexive terror, at least if it is inescapable; _he_ could perhaps tear these ropes, but Claude is as helpless in them as he would be in steel manacles. He doesn’t mind being silenced, not like Claude who loves to hate it; it’s neither here nor there for him. But the one time they’d tried a blindfold, his sheer panic had left a blank spot in his memory and a crack of bruises across Byleth’s face and chest that had needed a vulnerary to heal and months to steep out the guilt. All at once—goddess, no.

And yet here is Claude, handling something that would have Dimitri screaming in misery with little more than shuddering arousal.

Byleth cards fingers through Dimitri’s ever-longer hair. “Tell me if something’s eating you,” they murmur.

“I…” He swallows, feels his throat bob against his collar, and that grounds him. He fumbles for words, fails to find any that don’t sound pathetic, and forces himself to answer regardless; it was an order, and he can accept that. “I couldn’t do what he’s doing. I feel…a little weak.”

Claude makes some soft noise and headbutts him gently, uncoordinated and affectionate.

“You stay out of this,” Byleth tells Claude dryly, and pulls on one of his nipples to make him moan. “I’ve got wax and cotton right on hand.”

The threat makes Claude subside against Dimitri’s chest with a shiver, and Dimitri pets his hair without thought.

“And you…” Byleth’s face creases gently, concerned, and they nudge Dimitri’s chin up to kiss him with infinite love. “He couldn’t do what you’re doing either.” They pull back just enough to lock gazes, and Dimitri falls into those bright green eyes. “You hand yourself over to me, unhesitating. You give me with grace what I have to win from this fool—” another whining moan from Claude punctuates that “—by mind games or force. I know that takes profound strength.”

Dimitri licks his lips again, fumbles. “It is only because it feels so good.”

Byleth’s hand tugs in his hair, the gentlest of corrections, just as they might if he apologized when he shouldn’t. “And allowing yourself to feel good is easy, is it?”

“O…oh,” Dimitri says, and falls silent.

Byleth’s hand goes back to petting him, like they’re smoothing out a rumple that’s pulled up in his mind—again, of course, an old and well-worn one, rubbed in bone-deep like a rut in a road. _For fuck’s fucking sake,_ Claude had said once with an exasperated groan, _Faerghans! It’s not like there’s anything in your scripture that says letting yourself be happy for five seconds is a sin._

* * *

In time, Claude knows this much:

The leash between them’s been unclipped, after Dimitri’s fussing has subsided and lips and hands and nails have wandered all over his face and neck and chest. He’s been picked up, nigh-bodily, by the harness—could have been either of them—and spun, legs kicking fruitlessly. He’s still on the mattress, but he can’t even visualize which side of the bed is which. The one drawback of the wet cloth is that it doesn’t soak up as much of his drool; his chin is damp, along with one spot on the front of his trousers, and he can’t wipe either, at least not very well. He could try to get on his front to help with that, but if he’s right about his nipples, that might be a bad idea.

Also somebody, probably Byleth, is holding one of his legs, locking him in place as their hand cups him through his trousers, teasing him, achingly slow. _What’s given to you_ —more like what’s _not_ given to you, damn it, Teach. Not that he can blame them entirely for not paying much attention to him. From the sound of it, they have a cunt at the moment and Dimitri’s face is buried in it. Small shifting noises. Byleth’s moans dropping half an octave. Wetter sounds. Is he fingering them too? Claude thinks of Dimitri’s long, broad, steel-strong hands, of the way Byleth would be clenching and pulsing blood-hot and slick around them, and whines and tries to hump air, and Byleth runs a fingernail up the underside of his dick, blunted by thin linen.

He’s tried to rub off the blindfold or the outer layer of the gag on the mattress, but they’re tied too snug, a constant pressure on his face that is a little frightening and a little hypnotic at once. He’s tried to rub _himself_ off on the mattress, and that was what had gotten him shoved on his side for the nipple clamps. Definitely clamps. He hadn’t been sure at first—was somebody just pinching him until he shook and made unearthly noises into his gag?—but they’d stayed, so clamps. He thinks, from how they tug when he moves, from the way small odd things brush his chest, that there might be something hanging off them. They’ve never really stopped hurting, deliciously unyielding.

Time is stretching and he’s disoriented and the ropes have never budged. Byleth comes, unmistakeable, hand moving from his dick to clutch bruising hard at his inner thigh, then another rolling on its heels as they’re wont to in this form, and another.

Movement, eventually. Byleth lets go of his leg. He digs heels into the mattress, finds his purchase, rolls for the sake of rolling. Hands catch his head, hold him as he whines and seeks contact, and pressure smooths over his mouth through the cloth, and he doesn’t really understand why until the smell hits him. Byleth’s smell, deep and musky, with the tang of her orgasm. He can’t escape it, not unless they deign to take out his gag and replace it with something else, and it makes his mouth water and his throat bob as he swallows needily.

Hands let him go. Murmurs he can’t make out—maybe they don’t even need to plug his ears, not if they’re scheming this quietly.

Hands grab his ankles, pull them around to pin his legs to the mattress, heels down, and most of his body comes with, leaving him sprawled awkwardly on his back.

Wet heat envelopes his right big toe, and he hears his own stuttering moan as he tries to process that, and then the hand on his dick is back, firmer, coaxing. He bucks his hips, caught between sheer desire and the urge to hold himself back, to not come from a messy handjob when he could save it for a bigger bang.

“Don’t hold yourself back,” Byleth says, voice floating from somewhere above him. “I said you’re only going to feel. I just want to watch you squirm.”

He squirms. His mind spins in tight little circles. The drag of cloth against his dick aches, straining, and then Byleth’s hand dips inside instead, catches precome to rub around his head, strokes long and easy. It must be Dimitri sucking his toes, then, sending wet-hot sparks up his spine. _Dimitri_. Goddamn, that’s a mental image.

Byleth’s hand leaves.

Rummaging noises.

He whines, squirms closer to Dimitri even when it jiggles and tugs on his clamped nipples, hips moving desperately against thin air.

Dimitri’s mouth pulls off him, and his hands inexorably catch one of Claude’s legs and folds it until his heel touches the top of his thigh. Rope against his flesh, firm through his trousers. Claude makes some wretched little noise, struggles. It’s dizzying, being bound when he can’t see what’s happening, helpless as being in freefall. Having his legs free had given him that little bit of control: squirming, rolling, the vague and unreasonable thought that he _could_ scamper away if he could find his way off the bed and onto his feet. But now—now—rope closes between ankle and thigh, and he strains to straighten his leg, and of course he can’t.

The other leg. He’s probably saying something like _no no no no no_ into his gag, and somebody taps the bare ball of his foot twice, and he knocks his bound knee into the mattress twice in response. Of _course_ he’s fine. The other leg’s tied now too, and he’s a helpless package, can’t even really roll over, and it makes his gut churn with raw excitement and need.

 _Then_ the hand comes back to his dick, dipping down the front of his trousers, and he’s plunged headlong into the sensation, no way out, no room left to analyze. And the hand keeps working him, slick and demanding, until he jerks like a mad thing as he comes, thoughtless, in spite of himself.


	4. Chapter 4

“Do you need this?” Byleth asks, laying a wooden switch on the mattress in front of where Dimitri kneels, settled back into quiet contentment as Claude wallows limp after his orgasm, muzzy and sensitive, knees waving vaguely back and forth as Byleth pets his hair absentmindedly. Claude’s still a two-rounds-a-night guy, after all, he can handle it.

“I…” Dimitri fidgets with his own hands, keeps breathing deep and slow and steady. “I do not know if I _need_ it.” He can get rather wretched if he goes weeks without the kind of blood-haze that comes with a good beating, whether in the training yard or at Byleth’s hand. He doesn’t feel quite that on-edge; he’s not jangling in his skin. But…

“Do you want it?” Byleth asks instead, almost gently, and their hand is a little dangerous in Dimitri’s hair, like they already know the answer. _Allowing yourself to feel good. Faerghans!_ Dimitri feels a faint warmth in his face, a touch of shame as he spins around in place on his path, sorts out wanting and deserving and feeling and good and not-good in a familiar kind of pattern, and then lets himself exhale, and folds over, prostrating himself, to kiss it.

Byleth’s hand softens, cards through his hair, and the sense of peace sinks deeper into his bones, mixing with a slowly rising tide of anticipation. Even just one little switch—they might break it on him, true, but they can do a lot with that regardless.

“It will come when I’m ready,” Byleth says, patient and unruffled as always. “I’d like to just touch you first. And while I’m doing that, put this in Claude.”

_This_ , Dimitri sees as he lifts his head, is something else Byleth’s dug out of a drawer: a piece of enameled metal. It’s longer than their hand is wide, thick, swelling in two bulbs above a base set with a heavy ring. Claude, his come drying in his rucked-down pants, whines and wiggles—knowing he’s to be invaded but not with what.

There’s some rearranging. Byleth’s languid from their first few orgasms, keeping a comfortable pace. Pillows get piled. Byleth takes the wicked little clamps off Claude’s nipples and rubs the sore nubs as he thrashes with muffled wails. Dimitri picks him up again with the rope harness as a convenient handle, flips him over, and drops him on the stack of pillows, hips in the air, chest supported enough that he doesn’t collapse onto his face. His trousers are a little stuck, pinned by the ropes around his magnificent thighs, so with Byleth’s encouragement, Dimitri just rips those too, leaving his ass exposed.

The toy, he discovers as he holds it, has weights loose inside it, rolling back and forth and chiming subliminally, making it thrum. Byleth smiles as he notices that, small and devious.

Dimitri settles in, oil and toy on hand, rubbing a slicked thumb over Claude’s hole in heavy, slow circles long before he even breaches him. Byleth settles in behind him, chest pressed against their back, hands wandering over his skin. He basks in it with a ragged sigh, relaxing deeper and deeper into their touch. They run cool, as always, skin almost inhumanly smooth, sleek and comforting even against the mangled nerves of Dimitri’s scars. Hands tracing his face, collar, chest, ribs, hips, thighs, cock. He’s hard, of course, full and aching; Byleth slides a hand up and down lazily, and Dimitri bites his lip for a moment, hears his breathing go ragged.

Claude is begging silent with tiny twitches of his hips, hands curling and uncurling behind him, barely even any leverage to move that much. His _hole_ is twitching like he wants to pull Dimitri inside, and he concedes and slides one finger home, slow and slick. First knuckle, second. To the root, and Claude’s sweet muffled moan reaches him. Back out. Claude’s weak to long strokes, he knows, weak to slow and inexorable. Or fast and inexorable, but the metal thing is big and heavy without any give at all, so slow seems better.

“I’ll have you fuck him later, I think,” Byleth murmurs, fingers latched in his collar, whisper-soft in his ear where Claude can’t hear, and their breath chases tingles down his spine.

“As you wish,” Dimitri breathes. Heat rises under his skin at the thought of Claude tight around him, Claude that helpless bound package in his arms. Finger out, just for a moment, and there’s that delicious twitch of Claude’s rim again, toes twisting in the air as he strains to get the sensation back. Finger in. Eventually two. He falls into a peaceful haze, moments stretching without care for past or future. There’s Claude opening around his fingers, every little moan and twitch. There’s Byleth’s hands on his skin, sometimes his cock, sometimes his own ass and thighs, just that sheer pleasure of contact. There’s the collar warm and firm around his neck and his cock heavy between his legs. There’s not much else.

Claude stretches gaping around three of his fingers, fine tremors running through his thighs under the linen of his ruined trousers, and there is a toy beside Dimitri’s knee, and he has been ordered to put it in him, so he will. Byleth has, at some point, drizzled some oil on the thing. Dimitri picks it up, heavy and chiming, and slides it into Claude: the first bulb goes easy, replacing his fingers as he withdraws them, and punches a delicious moan out of him. Then there’s a slow moment as he coaxes it deeper until Claude’s body opens again and swallows the second bulb, leaving only the base with its dangling ring.

Claude is groaning into his gag, the sound wrung out and raw, and Dimitri strokes his flank, soothing. It’s Byleth who reaches out and loops a finger through the ring, jiggling, and Claude’s moan heightens, body twitching in surprise—jostling the weights, no doubt.

“Good,” they say in Dimitri’s ear, warm and matter-of-fact, their other hand resting on the hard curve of Dimitri’s ass, and the pleasure of that one word sinks deep into his soul.

* * *

Byleth would like Dimitri on elbows and knees for this, they think, but Claude can’t be left wallowing alone for too long, even with that plug to keep him company, so they rearrange, grateful for the big stretch of bed that makes up their terrain. Claude gets rolled off his pillow-pile, left on his back again with his bound thighs twitching and flexing as he squirms around the heavy toy. Byleth repurposes a frayed thread of Claude’s ruined shirt to loop through the ring in the base: pulled too hard by accident, it will likely break before it yanks the thing out of him, but it still sets it jingling inside him on a tug. The other end, after some deliberation, goes around one of Dimitri’s fingers: they’d considered Claude’s toes, but he’d figure that out and make use of it _far_ too easily.

Dimitri is on his elbows and knees, in fact, but with his face pillowed on Claude’s chest, close enough to kiss throat and shoulder—or bite if he wants something to help with the pain. Now, before they start, he’s nuzzling, deeply blissed out between Byleth’s hands all over them and the simple service of opening Claude. As Byleth traces the sleek muscles of his ass with the switch—not yet hitting him, just getting him ready—his breathing slows even further, loose hair sliding over his collar as he melts into Claude.

“Ready?” Byleth asks quietly, and both of them go very still: Dimitri holding a breath, Claude’s thigh frozen mid-squirm. She smiles fondly. This one isn’t for Claude; he’ll have to deal.

“Please,” Dimitri whispers, barely audible, and his hand curls just a little on Claude’s chest as he readies himself, which tugs the thread and surprises a faint noise out of his pillow.

The first blow comes down, light enough to barely raise a stripe, and Dimitri jolts softly, breathes out a faint noise of his own.

Byleth warms him up, soft and not too slow. Dimitri’s pain tolerance can be a little ridiculous, but he’s deeply relaxed, actually living in his skin instead of somewhere tight-wound and far away, so he’ll _feel_ it properly. And this is just a lazy, sensual little switching, at least by Dimitri standards. They’re not going to wring him out tonight: they don’t have the energy for that, any more than they do for breaking down Claude’s bratty games. Just heat him up and leave stripes to smolder as he fucks Claude later. Still, he’s Dimitri. He craves this.

Harder. Enough for a sharp crack of birch against tautly muscled skin. Enough to pull deep, shaky noises out of Dimitri, send him rocking slightly in that haze of pleasure-and-pain. The blood coming up under pale, pale skin soaks most of Byleth’s attention, and Dimitri’s breathing and noises and everything about him. Claude, on their periphery, hums and shudders and is boneless in his bonds, so they trust that he’s fine and let Dimitri, suffering beautifully, take their focus. Big hands clench and unclench. A groan half-muffled; he’s not biting yet, but he’s buried his face in warm skin, hungry.

Byleth rearranges a little so they can reach Dimitri’s head more comfortably, tugging his hair, folding their hand over the collar. “You’re doing so well for me.” The simplest of praise knocks a ragged little noise of relief out of him, makes the muscles in his shoulders loosen another notch. A harder stripe to go with it, and something halfway to a growl runs through him, and his fingers pry dimples in Claude’s shoulder. Red rises in Byleth’s wake, burning a line into Dimitri’s skin, and they trace that with a fingertip, making him tremble.

His cock twitches between his legs, hanging low and blood-dark.

Another stripe. Another twitch.

Dimitri seems like he’s on the verge of saying something, voice starting and stopping in his throat between stripes. He’s starting to go boneless as Byleth goes harder, groaning low and lush with pain. He takes a mouthful of Claude’s shoulder, lets go, worries at him again.

“Please,” he finally manages, and it sounds like it’s been wrung out of the very roots of his soul.

“Tell me,” Byleth breathes, preening proud. It can still be so very hard for him to admit what he wants.

“B…bind me,” he whispers, urgent, into Claude’s chest, and for a moment, Byleth pauses. That’s walking through fire for him—tonight? When they already have to keep an eye on Claude? “My…dick. Please.”

Claude makes a muffled noise, not really that interpretable, but Byleth takes the liberty of assuming that it’s something along the lines of _congratulations, Your Majesty, you said dick._

“Oh?” Byleth asks simply, reaching down to curl a hand around him.

“So I don’t…”

“So you last?”

Dimitri nods, wordless, and clutches at Claude.

“Yes,” Byleth says, soft and firm. “Yes, I’d like that. You’re so good for asking.” They pet his hair. “Stay just as you are.”

The praise hits him like a drug. A stripe with the switch for a chaser leaves him moaning with relief as Byleth goes to look for something suitable.

* * *

Hearing Dimitri beg, with every ounce of his self-denying stoicism broken down, is always sweeter than honey, and one of the few sweet treats Claude actually enjoys. Hearing him beg to have his own dick tied up is even sweeter. Little hitches in his breath as Byleth sets to work, so close to Claude—he wants to kiss him but all he can do is nuzzle vaguely in his direction, whine when it doesn’t connect. He barely has the leverage to even scoot, not with some of Dimitri’s weight on him, and digging his heels into the mattress sets him clenching hard around that plug.

That plug which is going to drive him nuts.

He was still a little raw from orgasm when Dimitri had started playing with him, and his body is adjusting to the thing, the _weight_ of it. Burning deep, deep in his belly. He can’t get rid of the intrusion, he can barely even control his own body’s reactions, and he might be making little stifled whines that make his belly clench even hotter in face-reddening self-awareness. It’s a goddamn feedback loop—every time he twitches, it stirs inside him, and then he twitches, and just when he’s figuring out how to lie still, _something_ starts it again. Dimitri’s groans as the switch starts coming down again—those go right to his slowly stirring cock, feeding an arousal that feels like he’s beside himself, strung out in this helpless dark.

Crack, crack, crack, until Dimitri’s halfway to yelling, one long trailing cry muffled in Claude’s shoulder as he sets his teeth in him, bruising hard.

He strains and wriggles just to _do_ it, and whines as the toy makes him halfway regret it, and grinds for more until somebody, Byleth probably, tugs at his raw nipples.

The cracks of the switch have stopped. Weight lifting off his chest. He wonders if he can tell where Dimitri is from the rawness of his breath, the subliminal low noises.

Cold metal at his cheek, a hand on his throat, and he freezes on instinct, head spinning. Cold metal—blade?—sliding under the fabric of his gag. Slicing. The drying musk falls away from under his noise, and insistent fingers drag cloth out of his mouth, replace it before he can speak, and then rustling, hands somewhere—

He smells cock before the head touches his lips, and shoves himself towards it.

A manageable size. Silky. Not Dimitri. He’s not so far gone that he can’t recognize the weight of either dick in his mouth—Dimitri usually sees Byleth as a man, so that would be easy—the hand stays on his throat, holding him like a toy as Byleth presses as deep as he can take, and he chokes in bliss, spit sliding, groaning as they lazily fuck his face. Thighs on either side of his shoulders. It’s a terrible angle for this sort of thing, claustrophobic, he can’t really get Byleth down his throat, but it’s glorious and anything coherent is spinning out of the corners of his mind as iron-strong hands shove his thighs up, folding him in half around the pressure of the toy, splaying him wide.

“Get him ready for me.” Byleth’s voice, a bit of a hitch in their breath. No more ruffled than that even as their dick pulses in his mouth. Claude sucks hard, desperate for a reaction, gets rewarded with a deep shove and a little squeeze of their hand on his neck. No pleasuring, no doing things; just being used. He gets the hint—still tries to work his tongue how he can, gets nearly choked as a result. His whole body feels aflame, helplessly aroused.

The toy jostles, starts dragging loose, and he gives a muffled wail as it rattles, body clenching in spite of himself. The second bulb almost _pops_ out of him, and thick hot fingers catch his rim, hold him open.

Dimitri’s working him in earnest now, finger-fucking, so deep and full he feels like he’s being split open—stars above, if that’s for Byleth he must really be tight, straining, it’s probably good Dimitri isn’t fucking him tonight, is he really that out of practice in a few months—how many? He can’t tell. He feels dizzy. Maybe he’s fully hard now, he’s not sure, and his dick aches. He wonders if they’ll just leave him to come or not at his body’s whims, untouched and _painfully_ slow on the second round as Byleth fucks him.

Byleth pulls their dick out of his mouth, shoves the wad of cloth back in too quick to follow, and climbs off of him.

Dimitri’s _hand_ alone is rocking Claude a little on the mattress, and he’s pretty close to screaming, muffled, working at the wad with his tongue.

“If you spit it out,” comes Byleth’s voice from somewhere, “we stop. Everything. You’ll stay just like that until we finish.”

The threat hits him like ice water, sends his belly churning, stills his tongue so he sucks on the thing dutifully, face hot.

“Up a little,” Byleth says, conversational, to Dimitri, and smaller, cooler hands take over one leg, and he’s dragged, pillow shoved—ass open over the edge of the bed, maybe, so Byleth can stand? Both their hands on his legs. Byleth’s fingers holding his ass open, ready to feed himself in—

The cock that breaches him is _big_ , blood hot, sliding home in a rush that makes him howl. Shock jolts him, makes him clench, and it’s too much, it’s almost too much, it’s—

_Dimitri_. Dimitri’s in him. Dimitri’s hands slide under his hips and lift him up bodily, barely grounded, wailing and shaking as every stroke slams into him.

Hands move him. He’s lost the mattress. He barely knows which way is up. His head is hanging back, throat arched against the collar— _theirs_ , mindless toy, it terrifies him but it’s glorious—fingers plucking out the cloth in his mouth and for a moment his unstoppered scream fills the room—Byleth’s dick again, still wet, hitting the back of his throat with Dimitri’s next thrust because the arch of his neck leaves no resistance—

Time and the world fall away.


End file.
